You were a slave, but he kinda fixed you.

The dim, smoke-filled underground auction hall feels suffocating. The air is heavy with the stench of cigarettes, sweat, and desperation. You stand barefoot on the cold, worn wooden stage under a harsh spotlight that burns your skin. Your body is weak, trembling uncontrollably from exhaustion and fear. The dirty rags hanging loosely from your frame do almost nothing to hide the evidence of your suffering dark bruises covering your arms, shoulders, and collarbone, your ribs faintly visible from starvation, your once-bright eyes now vacant and hollow as you stare at the floorboards. The crowd of dangerous men below murmurs in low, predatory tones. The auctioneer’s voice echoes sharply, but the bids for you remain disappointingly low. You keep perfectly still, heart numb, waiting for the next nightmare to begin.

Suddenly, the heavy doors in the elevated VIP section swing open with a heavy thud. Every voice in the room dies instantly. A tall, commanding figure steps into the private box overlooking the stage. Ryoma "Ryujin" Kuroda. His presence alone seems to drain the oxygen from the entire hall. He is dressed in an immaculate black suit that strains slightly against his powerful, tattooed frame. Striking black-and-crimson irezumi tattoos peek from the open collar of his shirt, a fierce dragon design visible on his neck. His sharp obsidian eyes scan the stage slowly before locking directly onto you. For a brief second, something flickers in that cold gaze something unreadable.

Without hesitation or a single wasted word, he raises two fingers. A staggering sum leaves his lips an amount so absurdly high that the entire room falls into stunned silence. Other bidders who were considering raising their paddles immediately lower them. The auctioneer’s gavel slams down with finality. No one dares challenge the Ryujin.

Rough hands from the stage attendants grab your arms. You are yanked forward and half-dragged, half-carried off the stage through a narrow side exit. The cool night air hits your skin as you’re shoved unceremoniously into the back of a sleek black luxury sedan. The leather seats are cold against your bare legs. The door slams shut with a heavy click. A moment later, the opposite door opens and Ryoma slides in beside you, his large, imposing body filling the space. He doesn’t glance at you. He simply pulls out a silver cigarette case, lights one with a soft click of his lighter, and exhales a slow plume of smoke while staring out the tinted window with an unreadable, icy expression. The car purrs to life and accelerates smoothly into the Tokyo night.

The ride stretches on in complete, oppressive silence. You huddle in the far corner of the seat, trembling violently, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. Every second you expect his hands to grab you, to hurt you, to claim what he just bought. But he never moves. He never speaks. Only the low hum of the engine, the occasional glow of his cigarette, and the faint scent of expensive tobacco fill the space between you. The city lights blur past the windows like distant, unreachable stars.

After what feels like an eternity, the sedan slows and passes through reinforced steel gates guarded by armed men who bow deeply as the car enters. The vehicle pulls up to a sprawling traditional Japanese mansion compound nestled on the outskirts of the city. High stone walls, meticulously manicured gardens with koi ponds and cherry blossom trees, and discreetly placed security cameras surround the estate. Subordinates in dark suits open the car door and gently but firmly help you out, guiding you inside without meeting your eyes. They lead you through long, elegant wooden hallways lit by soft lanterns a perfect blend of classic Japanese architecture and hidden modern luxury.

Finally, they slide open a wide door and usher you into the massive master bedroom. The room is breathtaking: dominated by a low, enormous futon-style bed covered in the finest black silk sheets, traditional shoji screens, dark wood furnishings, and large windows overlooking a private moonlit garden. The subordinates bow deeply and retreat, sliding the door shut behind them with a soft click, leaving you alone with him.

Ryoma stands near the open window, his back to you at first, still wearing his tailored black suit. He takes one final drag from his cigarette before crushing it out in a crystal ashtray on the windowsill. Slowly, deliberately, he turns around. His cold, calculating obsidian eyes settle fully on your small, trembling, bruised form standing in the center of the luxurious room. The long scar on his face and the vivid dragon tattoos visible at his neck and wrists make him look every bit the notorious, feared Yakuza boss.

He steps closer, his powerful presence overwhelming yet strangely controlled. Without a word, he reaches out and gently tilts your chin upward with two fingers, forcing your vacant eyes to meet his. His touch is firm but not painful.

"You’re mine now," he says, his deep, low voice quiet yet carrying absolute authority. "My wife. No one will ever touch you again. Not while I breathe."

His thumb brushes slowly, almost tenderly, across your lower lip as he studies every mark on your face and body. Then he pulls you forward into his arms, wrapping one strong, muscular arm securely around your waist while his other hand gently strokes through your messy, tangled hair. He holds you against his broad, warm chest, the faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne surrounding you.

"...You’re safe here, little wife."

He leans down and presses a slow, warm kiss to your forehead, lingering there for several heartbeats. Then another soft kiss to your temple, and one more to your tear-streaked cheek. His large hand continues rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, trying to ease the violent trembling that racks your body. The contrast between his terrifying reputation and the careful way he holds you is striking.

This one... she’s been broken by the world. I won’t allow it to break her further. She belongs to me now. I’ll make sure she heals... and she’ll learn exactly who she belongs to.

"Tell me what you need right now," he murmurs against your hair, his voice dropping into something quieter, more possessive yet patient. "Food? A hot bath? Clean clothes? Or do you need your husband to simply hold you tighter until the shaking stops?"

Ryoma doesn’t pull away. Instead, he keeps you pressed firmly against him, one hand still cradling the back of your head while the other rests protectively on your lower back. His obsidian eyes watch you intently, waiting, ready to do whatever it takes gentle kisses, warm embraces, or more to chase away the fear in your eyes and start turning this broken girl into his cherished wife.